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The  Chronicle  of  the  Drum. 


wt/,   u/  urn/ntr  /  guick,  yiLtiiit  yon  Cupet^ 
Says  Santerre,   '  with  a  beat  of  your  drum. 

Lustily  then  did  I  tap  it. 

And  the  son  of  Saint  Louis  was  dumb." 


% 


T^he  C  hronicle  of  the  D  rum 


By  Willia^n  Makepeace  Thackeray 


New -York 

Charles  Scrtbner's  Sons 

1882 


Copyright 

By  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

i88i 


Press  of 

Francis  Hart  &'  Co. 

New  York 


*^*  This   Ballad   was    written    in    Paris,    in    i8^i,    at   the 
time  of  the  Seco7id  Funeral  of  Napoleon. 


lilllll'lJHIHIUlgg 


^^ Ho,  drummer !   quick,  silence  yon  Capet," 
Says  Santerre,  "with  a  beat  of  your  drum." 

Lustily  then  did  I  tap  it, 

And  the  son'^  oj  St.  Louis  was  dumb , . 


Pyle,. 


Engraver.  Page. 


„         ,  Frontis- 

■  French piece. 


Portrait  of  Thackeray Laurence Closson Title. 


Ornamental  title.    Part  I Geo.  Gibson ....  7".  Hellawell . .     I 


On  the  sunshiny  bench  of  a  tavern 
He  sits  and  he  prates  of  old  wars. 


.  Frost. J.  Hellawell.  . .     2 


Vll 


Artist. 


Engraver.  Page. 


My  ancestors  drummed  for  King  Harry, 
The  Huguenot  Lad  of  Navarre 

The  news  it  was  brought  to  King  Louis  j 
Corbleu  /  How  his  Majesty  swore  !  . .  . . 

*  *     *     *     Louis  the  Great, — 

Old,  lonely,  and  half  broken-hearted . .  . 

At  Rossbach,  in  spite  of  dad's  drumming, 
^Tis  said  we  were  beaten  by  Fritz 

*  *     *     The  good  town  of  Quebec 

Dear  mammy  she  looks  in  their  faces. 
And  asks  if  her  husband  is  come? 

He  is  lying  all  cold  on  the  glacis. 

And  will  never  more  beat  on  the  drum 

*  *     The  lovely  court-ladies  iti  powder. 
And  lappets,  and  long  satin-tails 


Fredericks Karst 4 


Lungren Closson 6 


Fredericks Karst 


Taber Heinemann  ...    11 


Schell Geyer 12 


Frost E.  Clement.  ...    14 


Lungren Closson 17 


A  rfUt.  Engraver.  Page. 

At  her  Majesty's  opera-box Lungren J.  P.  Davis ...    19 


And  so  sDiiling  she  looked  and  so  tender, 
That  our  officers,  privates  and  drummers. 

All  swore  they  would  die  to  defend  her Fredericks Karst 20 


And,  like  a  majestical  monarch. 

Kept  filing  his  locks  and  his  keys Fredericks Winham 23 


We  stormed  and  we  broke  the  great  gate  in Share Evans 25 


At  midnight  I  beat  the  tattoo. 
And  woke  up  the  pikevien  of  Paris 

To  follow  the  bold  Barbaroux Share French 27 


*     *     The  fair  gardens  where  towered 

The  walls  of  his  heritage  splendid J.  S.  Davis. . .  .Smart li 


I  love  to  go  sit  in  the  sun  there. 

The  flowers  and  fountain^-  to  see J.  S.  Davis. . .  Annin 30 


Awful,  and  proud,  and  erect. 

Here  sat  our  republican  goddess Pyle French 33 


A  rtist.  Engraver.  Page, 

Young  virgins  with  fair  golden  tresses, 

Old  silver-hair'' d  prelates  and  priests Fredericks Karst 34 


Ornamental  title.     Part  II Geo.  Gibson ....  Andrew 37 


She  looked  from  the  bars  of  her  prison, 

And  shrieked  as  she  saw  it,  and  fell Pyle E.  Clement.  ...    38 


As  she  felt  the  foul  fingers  that  touch'' d  her, 

She  shrank,  but  she  deigned  not  to  speak Birch Wolf 41 


*     *      The  Austrian  flags 

Flaunt  proud  in  the  fields  of  Savoy IVoodward  .  .  .  .J.  Hellawell.  . .   43 


The  drummer  now  bared  his  old  breast. 

And  showed  us  a  plenty  of  scars Frost Karst 45 


A  Brunswicker  made  it  at  Jena, 

Beside  the  fair  river  of  Saal Taylor Heinemann  ...   47 


Had  winter  not  driven  them  back Woodward Andrew 49 


A  rtiit.  Engraver.  Page. 


*     *    He  passed  through  the  lines  of  his  guard. 

And  our  drums  beat  the  notes  of  salute Taber 


.Held 


53 


The  red-coats  were  crowning  the  height Share Heinemann  ...   55 


*     *     *     *    At  sunset 

His  banners  were  floating  there  still. 


Woodward  ....  Andrew 57 


/'//  give  you  a  curse  on  all  traitors 


.  Frost Held 


58 


The  grave  historian  at  his  desk Taber Heard 64 


THE    CHRONICLE    OF   THE    DRUM. 


At  Paris,  hard  by  the  Maine  barriers, 

Whoever  will  choose  to  repair, 
Midst  a  dozen  of  wooden-legged  warriors 

May  haply  fall  in  with  old  Pierre. 
On  the  sunshiny  bench  of  a  tavern 

He  sits  and  he  prates  of  old  wars, 
And  moistens  his  pipe  of  tobacco 

With  a  drink  that  is  named  after  Mars. 

The  beer  makes  his  tongue  run  the  quicker, 

And  as  long  as  his  tap  never  fails, 
Thus  over  his  favourite  liquor 

Old  Peter  will  tell  his  old  tales. 
Says  he,   "  In  my  life's  ninety  summers 

Strange  changes  and  chances  I've  seen, — 
So  here's  to  all  gentlemen  drummers 

That  ever  have  thumped  on  a  skin. 


"  Brought  up  in  the  art  miHtary 

For  four  generations  we  are ; 
My  ancestors  drumm'd  for  King  Harry, 

The  Huguenot  lad  of  Navarre. 
And  as  each  man  in  Hfe  has  his  station 

According  as  Fortune  may  fix, 
While  Cond^  was  waving  the  biton. 

My  grandsire  was  trolling  the  sticks. 

**  Ah  !  those  were  the  days  for  commanders ! 

What  glories  my  grandfather  won, 
Ere  bigots,  and  lackeys,  and  panders 

The  fortunes  of  France  had  undone ! 
In  Germany,   Flanders,  and  Holland, — 

What  foeman  resisted  us  then  ? 
No ;  my  grandsire  was  ever  victorious. 

My  grandsire  and  Monsieur  Turenne. 


He  died :   and  our  noble  battalions 
The  jade  fickle  Fortune  forsook  ; 


And  at  Blenheim,   in  spite  of  our  valiance, 

The  victory  lay  with  Malbrook. 
The  news  it  was  brought  to  King  Louis; 

Corbleu^!  how  his  Majesty  swore 
When  he  heard  they  had  taken  my  grandsire 

And  twelve  thousand  gentlemen  more. 

"  At  Namur,  Ramillies,  and  Malplaquet 

Were  we  posted,  on  plain  or  in  trench  : 
Malbrook  only  need  to  attack  it 

And  away  from  him  scamper'd  we  French. 
Cheer  up  !  'tis  no  use  to  be  glum,  boys, — 

'Tis  written,,  since  fighting  begun, 
That  sometimes  we  fight  and  we  conquer, 

And  sometimes  we  fight  and  we  run. 


"  To  fight  and  to  run  was  our  fate : 

Our  fortune  and  fame  had  departed. 
And  so  perish'd  Louis  the  Great, — 

Old,  lonely,  and  half  broken-hearted. 
His  coffin  they  pelted  with  mud. 

His  body  they  tried  to  lay  hands  on ; 
And  so  having  buried  King  Louis 

They  loyally  served  his  great-grandson. 


"  God  save  the  beloved  King  Louis  ! 

(For  so  he  was  nicknamed  by  some), 
And  now  came  my  father  to  do  his 

King's  orders  and  beat  on  the  drum. 
My  grandsire  was  dead,  but  his  bones 

Must  have  shaken,  I'm  certain,  for  joy, 
To  hear  daddy  drumming  the  EngHsh 

From  the  meadows  of  famed  Fontenoy. 

"  So  well  did  he  drum  in  that  battle 
That  the  enemy  show'd  us  their  backs ; 

Corbleu !  it  was  pleasant  to  rattle 
The  sticks  and  to  follow  old  Saxe ! 

We  next  had  Soubise  as  a  leader. 

And  as  luck  hath  its  changes  and  fits. 


lO 


At  Rossbach,  in  spite  of  dad's  drumming, 
'Tis  said  we  were  beaten  by  Fritz. 
UNlVtabiiY  OF  CAUi-ORNlA  LIBRARY 


12 


"And  now  daddy  cross'd  the  Adantic, 

To  drum  for  Montcalm  and  his  men  ; 
Morbleu  !  but  it  makes  a  man  frantic 

To  think  we  were  beaten  again  ! 
My  daddy  he  cross'd  the  wide  ocean, 

My  mother  brought  me  on  her  neck, 
And  we  came  in  the  year  fifty-seven 

To  guard  the  good  town  of  Quebec. 

**  In  the  year  fifty-nine  came  the  Britons, — 

Full  well  I  remember  the  day, — 
They  knocked  at  our  gates  for  admittance, 

Their  vessels  were  moor'd  in  our  bay. 
Says  our  general,   *  Drive  me  yon  red-coats 

Away  to  the  sea  whence  they  come  ! ' 
So  we  march'd  against  Wolfe  and  his  bull-dogs, 

We  marched  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 


13 


14 


"  I  think   I   can  see  my  poor  mammy 

With  me  in  her  hand  as  she  waits, 
And  our  regiment,   slowly  retreating, 

Pours  back  through  the  citadel  gates. 
Dear  mammy  she  looks  in  their  faces, 

And  asks  if  her  husband  is  come? 
He  is  lying  all  cold  on  the  glacis, 

And  will  never  more  beat  on  the  drum. 

"  Come,  drink,  'tis  no  use  to  be  glum,  boys ! 

He  died  like  a  soldier  in  glory ; 
Here's  a  glass  to  the  health  of  all  drum-boys. 

And  now  I'll  commence  my  own  story. 
Once  more  did  we  cross  the  salt  ocean. 

We  came  in  the  year  eighty-one  ; 
And  the  wrongs  of  my  father  the  drummer 

Were  avenged  by  the  drummer  his  son. 


'5 


*'  In  Chesapeake  Bay  we  were  landed, 

In  vain  strove  the  British  to  pass  : 
Rochambeau  our  armies  commanded, 

Our  ships  they  were  led  by  De  Grasse. 
Morbleu !  how  I  rattled  the  drumsticks 

The  day  we  march'd  into  Yorktown ; 
Ten  thousand  of  beef-eating  British 

Their  weapons  we  caused  to  lay  down. 

**  Then  homewards  returning  victorious. 
In  peace  to  our  country  we  came, 

And  were  thanked  for  our  glorious  actions 
By   Louis,   Sixteenth  of  the  name. 

What  drummer  on  earth  could  be  prouder 
Than  I,  while  I  drumm'd  at  Versailles 


i6 


To  the  lovely  court  ladies  in  powder, 
And  lappets,  and  long  satin -tails  ? 


17 


"The  princes  that  day  passed  before  us, 

Our  countrymen's  glory  and  hope  ; 
Monsieur,  who  was  learned  in  Horace, 

D'Artois,  who  could  dance  the  tight-rope. 
One  night  we  kept  guard  for  the  Queen 

At  her  Majesty's  opera-box, 
While  the  King,  that  majestical  monarch. 

Sat  filing  at  home  at  his  locks. 


n^.ijj:jiiiiMi!iiJii;iiuiiiUiJUumimji.uiuiuuiiiuiiuuiuiuux£i;.^<imi 


19 


"Yes,    I  drumm'd  for  the  fair  Antoinette, 
And  so  smiling  she  look'd  and  so  tender, 


That  our  officers,  privates,  and  drummers. 
All  vow'd  they  would  die  to  defend  her. 

But  she  cared  not  for  us  honest  fellows. 
Who  fought  and  who  bled  in  her  wars, 

She  sneer'd  at  our  gallant  Rochambeau, 
And  turned  Lafayette  out  of  doors. 

'*  Ventrebleu !  then  I  swore  a  great  oath, 

No  more  to  such  tyrants  to  kneel; 
And  so,  just  to  keep  up  my  drumming, 

One  day  I  drumm'd  down  the  Bastile. 
Ho,  landlord  !  a  stoup  of  fresh  wine. 

Come,   comrades,   a  bumper  we'll  try, 
And  drink  to  the  year  eighty-nine 

And  the  glorious  fourth  of  July ! 


21 


"  Then  bravely  our  cannon  it  thunder'd 

As  onwards  our  patriots  bore. 
Our  enemies  were  but  a  hundred, 

And  we  twenty  thousand  or  more. 
They  carried  the  news  to  King  Louis, 

He  heard  it  as  calm  as  you  please, 
And,  like  a  majestical  monarch, 

Kept  filing  his  locks  and  his  keys. 


23 


"  We  show'd  our  republican  courage, 

We  storm'd  and  we  broke  the  great  gate  in, 


25 


And  we  murder'd  the  insolent  governor 
For  daring  to  keep  us  a-waiting. 

Lambesc  and  his  squadrons  stood  by : 
They  never  stirr'd  finger  or  thumb. 

The  saucy  aristocrats  trembled 

As  they  heard  the  republican  drum. 

"Hurrah!  what  a  storm  was  a-brewing! 

The  day  of  our  vengeance  was  come ! 
Through  scenes  of  what  carnage  and  ruin 

Did  I  beat  on  the  patriot  drum  ! 
Let's  drink  to  the  famed  tenth  of  August ; 

At  midnight  I  beat  the  tattoo, 
And  woke  up  the  pikemen  of  Paris 

To  follow  the  bold  Barbaroux. 


26 


"  With  pikes,  and  with  shouts,   and  with  torches, 
March 'd  onward  our  dusty  battaHons, 


27 


And  we  girt  the  tall  castle  of  Louis, 

A  million  of  tatterdemalions ! 
We  storm'd  the  fair  gardens  where  tower'd 

The  walls  of  his  heritage  splendid. 
Ah,   shame  on  him,   craven  and  coward, 

That  had  not  the  heart  to  defend  it  ! 


28 


"With  the  crown  of  his  sires  on  his  head, 

His  nobles  and  knights  by  his  side, 
At  the  foot  of  his  ancestors'  palace 

'Twere  easy,  methinks,  to  have  died. 
But  no :  when  we  burst  through  his  barriers, 

'Mid  heaps  of  the  dying  and  dead, 
In  vain  through  the  chambers  we  sought  him- 

He  had  turn'd  like  a  craven  and  fled. 


**  You  all  know  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  ? 

'Tis  hard  by  the  Tuileries  wall. 
'Mid  terraces,  fountains,  and  statues. 

There  rises  an  obelisk  tall. 
There  rises  an  obelisk  tall. 

All  garnished  and  gilded  the  base  is ; 
'Tis  surely  the  gayest  of  all 

Our  beautiful  city's  gay  places. 


29 


30 


**  Around  it  are  gardens  and  flowers, 

And  the  Cities  of  France  on  their  thrones, 
Each  crown'd  with  his  circlet  of  flowers 

Sits  watching  this  biggest  of  stones  ! 
I  love  to  go  sit  in  the  sun  there, 

The  flowers  and  fountains  to  see, 
And  to  think  of  the  deeds  that  were  done  there 

In  the  glorious  year  ninety-three. 


31 


"  'Twas  here  stood  the  Altar  of  Freedom ; 

And  though  neither  marble  nor  gilding 
Was  used  in  those  days  to  adorn 

Our  simple  republican  building, 
Corbleu  !  but  the  mere  guillotine 

Cared  little  for  splendor  or  show, 
So  you  gave  her  an  axe  and  a  beam, 

And  a  plank  and  a  basket  or  so. 

"Awful,   and  proud,   and  erect, 

Here  sat  our  republican  goddess. 
Each  morning  her  table  we  deck'd 

With  dainty  aristocrats'  bodies. 
The  people  each  day  flocked  around 

As  she  sat  at  her  meat  and  her  wine  : 
'Twas  always  the  use  of  our  nation 

To  witness  the  sovereign  dine. 


32 


33 


"Young  virgins  with  fair  golden  tresses, 
Old  silver-hair'd  prelates  and  priests, 


34 


Dukes,   marquises,  barons,  princesses. 
Were  splendidly  served  at  her  feasts. 

Ventrebleu !  but  we  pamper'd  our  ogress 
With  the  best  that  our  nation  could  bring, 

And  dainty  she  grew  in  her  progress, 
And  called  for  the  head  of  a  King ! 

"  She  called  for  the  blood  of  our  King, 

And  straight  from  his  prison  we  drew  him  ; 
And  to  her  with  shouting  we  led  him. 

And  took  him,   and  bound  him,  and  slew  him. 
*  The  monarchs  of  Europe  against  me 

Have  plotted  a  godless  alliance  : 
I'll  fling  them  the  head  of  King  Louis,* 

She  said,   '  as  my  gage  of  defiance.' 


35 


"  I  see  him  as  now,   for  a  moment, 

Away  from  his  gaolers  he  broke  ; 
And  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold. 

And  linger'd,   and  fain  would  have  spoke. 
'  Ho,   drummer  !  quick,   silence  yon   Capet,' 

Says  Santerre,    '  with  a  beat  of  your  drum. 
Lustily  then  did  I  tap  it, 

And  the  son  of  Saint  Louis  was  dumb." 


36 


.  -/^ 


37 


38 


"The  glorious  days  of  September 

Saw  many  aristocrats  fall ; 
'Twas  then  that  our  pikes  drank  the  blood 

In  the  beautiful  breast  of  Lamballe. 
Pardi,  'twas  a  beautiful  lady  ! 

I  seldom  have  look'd  on  her  like ; 
And  I  drumm'd  for  a  gallant  procession, 

That  marched  with  her  head  on  a  pike. 

"  Let's  show  the  pale  head  to  the  Queen, 
We  said — she'll  remember  it  well. 

She  looked  from  the  bars  of  her  prison, 
And  shriek'd  as  she  saw  it,  and  fell. 


39 


We  set  up  a  shout  at  her  screaming, 

We  laugh'd  at  the  fright  she  had  shown 

At  the  sight  of  the  head  of  her  minion  — 
How  she'd  tremble  to  part  with  her  own  ! 

"  We  had  taken  the  head  of  King  Capet, 
We  called  for  the  blood  of  his  wife  ; 

Undaunted  she  came  to  the  scaffold, 
And  bared  her  fair  neck  to  the  knife. 

As  she  felt  the  foul  fingers  that  touch'd  her, 
She  shrank,   but  she  deigned  not  to  speak 


40 


She  look'd  with  a  royal  disdain, 

And  died  with  a  blush  on  her  cheek 


41 


"  'Twas  thus  that  our  country  was  saved  ; 

So  told  us  the  safety  committee ! 
But  psha !   I've  the  heart  of  a  soldier, 

All  gentleness,   mercy,   and  pity. 
I  loathed  to  assist  at  such  deeds, 

And  my  drum  beat  its  loudest  of  tunes 
As  we  offered  to  justice  offended 

The  blood  of  the  bloody  tribunes. 

"  Away  with  such  foul  recollections  ! 

No  more  of  the  axe  and  the  block  ; 
I  saw  the  last  fight  of  the  sections, 

As  they  fell  'neath  our  guns  at  Saint  Rock. 


42 


"  We  came  to  an  army  in  rags, 
Our  general  was  but  a  boy 

When  we  first  saw  the  Austrian  flags 
Flaunt  proud  in  the  fields  of  Savoy. 


43 


In  the  glorious  year  ninety-six, 

We  march'd  to  the  banks  of  the  Po ; 

I  carried  my  drum  and  my  sticks, 
And  we  laid  the  proud  Austrian  low. 

"  In  triumph  we  enter'd  Milan, 

We  seized  on  the  Mantuan  keys ; 
The  troops  of  the  Emperor  ran, 

And  the  Pope  he  fell  down  on  his  knees."- 
Pierre's  comrades  here  call'd  a  fresh  bottle, 

And  clubbing  together  their  wealth, 
They  drank  to  the  Army  of  Italy, 

And  General  Bonaparte's  health. 


44 


The  drummer  now  bared  his  old  breast, 
And  show'd  us  a  plenty  of  scars, 


45 


Rude  presents  that  Fortune  had  made  him 

In  fifty  victorious  wars. 
'*  This  came  when  I   follow'd  bold  Kleber — 

'Twas  shot  by  a  Mameluke  gun  ; 
And  this  fi-om  an  Austrian  sabre, 

When  the  field  of  Marengo  was  won. 

"  My  forehead  has  many  deep  furrows, 

But  this  is  the  deepest  of  all : 
A  Brunswicker  made  it  at  Jena, 

Beside  the  fair  river  of  Saal. 
This  cross,   'twas  the  Emperor  gave  it ; 

(God  bless  him!)  it  covers  a  blow; 
I  had  it  at  Austerlitz  fight, 

As  I  beat  on  my  drum  in  the  snow. 


46 


47 


"'Twas  thus  that  we  conquer'd  and  fought; 

But  wherefore  continue  the  story  ? 
There's  never  a  baby  in  France 

But  has  heard  of  our  chief  and  our  glory, 
But  has  heard  of  our  chief  and  our  fame, 

His  sorrows  and  triumphs  can  tell, 
How  bravely  Napoleon  conquer'd, 

How  bravely  and  sadly  he  fell. 

"  It  makes  my  old  heart  to  beat  higher. 

To  think  of  the  deeds  that  I   saw  ; 
I  follow'd  bold  Ney  through  the  fire, 

And  charged  at  the  side  of  Murat." 
And  so  did  old  Peter  continue 

His  story  of  twenty  brave  years ; 
His  audience  follow'd  with  comments — 

Rude  comments  of  curses  and  tears. 


48 


He  told  how  the  Prussians  in  vain 

Had  died  in  defence  of  their  land ; 
His  audience  laugh'd  at  the  story, 

And  vow'd  that  their  captain  was  grand  ! 
He  had  fought  the  red  English,   he  said, 

In  many  a  battle  of  Spain ; 
They  cursed  the  red  English,  and  prayed 

To  meet  them  and  fight  them  again. 

He  told  them  how  Russia  was  lost. 
Had  winter  not  driven  them  back ; 


49 


And  his  company  cursed  the  quick  frost, 
And  doubly  they  cursed  the  Cossack. 

He  told  how  the  stranger  arrived ; 
They  wept  at  the  tale  of  disgrace ; 

And  they  long'd  but  for  one  battle  more, 
The  stain  of  their  shame  to  efface. 

"  Our  country  their  hordes  overrun, 

We  fled  to  the  fields  of  Champagne, 
And  fought  them,  though  twenty  to  one, 

And  beat  them  again  and  again  ! 
Our  warrior  was  conquer'd  at  last ; 

They  bade  him  his  crown  to  resign ; 
To  fate  and  his  country  he  yielded 

The  rights  of  himself  and  his  line. 


50 


"  He  came,  and  among  us  he  stood, 

Around  him  we  press'd  in  a  throng : 
We  could  not  regard  him  for  weeping, 

Who  had  led  us  and  loved  us  so  long. 
*  I  have  led  you  for  twenty  long  years,' 

Napoleon  said  ere  he  went ; 
'Wherever  was  honour  I  found  you, 

And  with  you,   my  sons,  am  content ! 

"'Though  Europe  against  me  was  arm'd, 
Your  chiefs  and  my  people  are  true ; 

I  still  might  have  struggled  with  fortune, 
And  baffled  all  Europe  with  you. 


51 


"  '  But  France  would  have  suffer'd  the  while, 

'Tis  best  that  I   suffer  alone ; 
I  go  to  my  place  of  exile, 

To  write  of  the  deeds  we  have  done. 

"  '  Be  true  to  the  king  that  they  give  you. 

We  may  not  embrace  ere  we  part ; 
But,   General,   reach  me  your  hand, 

And  press  me,   I  pray,   to  your  heart.' 

"  He  call'd  for  our  battle  standard ; 

One  kiss  to  the  eagle  he  gave. 
'  Dear  eagle  ! '  he  said,    '  may  this  kiss 

Long  sound  in  the  hearts  of  the  brave ! ' 

"Twas  thus  that  Napoleon  left  us; 
Our  people  were  weeping  and  mute, 


52 


As  he  passed  through  the  lines  of  his  guard, 
And  our  drums  beat  the  notes  of  salute. 


53 


"  I  look'd  when  the  drumming  was  o'er, 

I  look'd,-  but  our  hero  was  gone ; 
We  were  destined  to  see  him  once  more. 

When  we  fought  on  the  Mount  of  St.  John. 
The  Emperor  rode  through  our  files  ; 

'Twas  June,  and  a  fair  Sunday  morn. 
The  lines  of  our  warriors  for  miles 

Stretch'd  wide  throuofh  the  Waterloo  corn. 


& 


'  In  thousands  we  stood  on  the  plain. 
The  red-coats  were  crowning  the  height; 

Go  scatter  yon  English,'  he  said; 
'  We'll  sup,  lads,  at  Brussels  to-night.' 


54 


55 


We  answer'd  his  voice  with  a  shout; 

Our  eagles  were  bright  in  the  sun  ; 
Our  drums  and  our  cannon  spoke  out, 

And  the  thundering  battle  begun. 

"  One  charge  to  another  succeeds, 

Like  waves  that  a  hurricane  bears ; 
All  day  do  our  galloping  steeds 

Dash  fierce  on  the  enemy's  squares. 
At  noon  we  began  the  fell  onset: 

We  charged  up  the  Englishman's  hill ; 
And  madly  we  charged  it  at  sunset — 

His  banners  were  floating  there  still. 


56 


**  —  Go  to!  I  will  tell  you  no  more; 
You  know  how  the  battle  was  lost 


57 


58 


Ho !  fetch  me  a  beaker  of  wine, 

And,  comrades,   I'll  give  you  a  toast. 

I'll  give  you  a  curse  on  all  traitors. 
Who  plotted  our  Emperor's  ruin  ; 

And  a  curse  on  those  red-coated   English, 
Whose  bayonets  helped  our  undoing. 

"A  curse  on  those  British  assassins. 

Who  order'd  the  slaughter  of  Ney ; 
A  curse  on  Sir  Hudson,  who  tortured 

The  life  of  our  hero  away. 
A  curse  on  all  Russians — I  hate  them  — 

On  all  Prussian  and  Austrian  fry  ; 
And  oh !  but  I  pray  we  may  meet  them. 

And  fight  them  again  ere  I  die." 


59 


6o 


'  Twas  thus  old  Peter  did  conclude 
His  chronicle  with  curses  fit. 

He  spoke  the  tale  in  accents  rude. 
In  ruder  verse  I  copied  it. 

Perhaps  the  tale  a  moral  bears, 

(All  tales  in  time  to  this  must  come), 

The  story  of  two  hufidred  years 
Writ  on  the  parchment  of  a  drum. 

What  Peter  told  with  drum  and  stick 

Is  endless  theme  for  poefs  pen, — 
Is  found  in  endless  quartos  thick. 
Enormous  books  by  learned  men. 


6i 


And  ever  since  historian  writ, 

And  ever  since  a  bard  could  sing, 

Doth  each  exalt  with  all  his  wit 
The  noble  art  of  murdering. 

We  love  to  read  the  glorious  page, 

How  bold  Achilles  kilfd  his  foe; 
And   Turnus,  feWd  by  Trojans    rage, 
Went  howling  to  the  shades  below. 

How  Godfrey  led  his  red-cross  knights, 
How  mad  Orlando  slashed  and  slew  ; 

There  s  7tot  a  single  bard  that  writes 
But  doth  the  glorious  theme  renew. 


62 


And  while,   in  fashion  picturesque. 

The  poet  rhymes  of  blood  and  blows, 
The  grave  historian  at  his  desk 
Describes  the  same  in  classic  prose. 

Go  read  the  works  of  Reverend  Coxe, 

You  II  duly  see  recorded  there 
The  history  of  the  selfsame  knocks 

Here  roughly  S7ing  by  Drummer  Pierre. 

Of  battles  fierce  a7id  warriors  big. 
He  writes  in  phrases  dull  and  slow, 

And  waves  his  cauliflower  wig. 

And  shouts  ''St.  George  for  Marlborow/" 


63 


""'  hr^"^ 


I 


k 


Take  Doctor  Southey  from  the  shelf, 
A71  LL.  D., — a  peaceful  man; 

Good  Lord,  how  doth  he  plume  himself 
Because  we  beat  the  C or  sic  an  ! 


64 


From  first  to  last  his  page  is  filled 

With  stirring  tales  how  blows  were  struck. 
He  shows  how  we  the  Frenchmen  kilTd, 
And  praises  God  for  our  good  luck. 

Some  hints,  'tis  true,  of  politics 

The  doctors  give  and  statesman' s  art  : 

Pierre  07ily  bangs  his  drum  and  sticks, 
And  understands  the  bloody  part. 

He  cares  not  what  the  cause  may  be, 
He  is  not  nice  for  wrong  and  right; 

But  show  him  where  s  the  e?iemy, 
He  only  asks  to  drum  and  fight. 


65 


They  bid  him  fight, — perhaps  he  wins , 
And  when  he  tells  the  story  der, 

The  honest  savage  brags  and  grins, 
And  only  longs  to  fight  once  more. 

But  luck  may  change,  a7id  valour  fail, 
Our  drummer,  Peter,  m.eet  reverse. 

And  with  a  moral  points  his  tale — 
The  end  of  all  such  tales — a  curse. 

Last  year,  my  love,   it  was  my  hap 

Behind  a  grenadier  to  be. 
And,  but  he  wore  a  hairy  cap, 
No  taller  m.an,  methinks,  tha7i  m,e. 


66 


Prince  Albert  and  the  Queen,  God  wot, 
(Be  blessings  on  the  glorious  pair/ ) 

Before  us  passed.     I  saw  them  not — 
/  only  saw  a  cap  of  hair. 

Your  orthodox  historian  puts 
In  foremost  rank  the  soldier  thus, 

The  red-coat  bully  in  his  boots, 

That  hides  the  inarch  of  men  froin  us. 

He  puts  him,  there  in  foremost  rank, 

You  wonder  at  his  cap  of  hair: 
You  hear  his  sabre's  cursed  clank. 
His  spurs  are  jijigling  everywhere. 


67 


Go  to  !    I  hate  him  and  his  trade: 
Who  bade  us  so  to  cringe  and  bend, 

And  all  God's  peaceful  people  made 
To  such  as  him  subservient? 

Tell  me  what  find  we  to  admire 
In  epaulets  and  scarlet  coats — 

In  men,   because  they  load  a7id  fire, 

And  know  the  art  of  cutting  throats? 


Ah,  gentle,   tender  lady  mine  I 

The  winter  wind  blows  cold  and  shrill ; 
Come,  fill  me  one  tnore  glass  of  wine, 

A  nd  give  the  silly  fools  their  will. 


68 


And  what  care  we  for  war  and  wrack, 
How  kings  and  heroes  rise  a7id  fall? 

Look  yonder,  in  his  coffi7t  black, 

There  lies  the  greatest  of  them  all ! 

To  pluck  him  down,  and  keep  him  up, 
Died  many  million  human  souls. — 

'  Tis  twelve  d clock  and  time  to  sup  ; 
Bid  Mary  heap  the  fire  with  coals. 

He  captured  many  thousand  guns  ; 

He  wrote  '''The  Great''  before  his  name  ; 
And  dying,  only  left  his  sons 

The  recollection  of  his  shame. 


69 


Though  more  than  half  the  world  was  his, 
He  died  without  a  rood  his  own  ; 

And  borrow d  from  his  enemies 
Six  foot  of  gjvund  to  lie  ttpon. 

He  fought  a  thousatid  glorious  wars, 

And  more  than  half  the  world  was  his, 
And  somewhere  now,   in  yonder  stars. 
Can  tell,  mayhap,   what  greatness  is. 


70 


■'<J. 


